Fluffernutter
by GeekyChic123
Summary: How one sandwich can mean so much to two people who get paid to kill for a living.


**_MILD MILD SPOILERS FOR END GAME? NOTHING IMPORTANT BUT JUST THE SMALLEST DETAIL OF A SPOILER_**

**_First of all, End Game killed part of my soul, but also reignited my passion for this fandom and for Clintasha. So, hello, I'm back. Second of all, the idea for this story came from me not being observant. When Natasha made herself a peanut butter sandwich at the start of End Game, I guess I was excited and distracted and thought she made a fluffernutter. Don't know why, but I did. And my first thought was "Wow, Clint totally introduced her to those." And I began writing this, and then saw the movie again because I am a glutton for punishment, and surprise she just made herself a peanut butter sandwich. But I wrote too much of this story to give up on it, so here is a fluffy fic about how peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches have an impact on the Strike Team Delta Relationship. It's actually a pretty cute story idea, I'm just annoyed I got the little detail I wrote a whole chapter of a story about wrong. _**

It was so late that it was closer to sunrise than sunset. Clint was exhausted, pissed off, nursing a couple new bullet wounds and also currently avoiding all contact with Shield. Almost every one of these factors had to do with the young woman currently sulking in the corner of his hotel room, nursing wounds of her own.

Clint had been assigned this case a month and a half ago, the goal had been clear; "Dispose of the Mark. No questions asked." Her reputation had more than exceeded her, Barton knew what the great Black Widow was capable of. But Coulson had still taken the time to pull him aside before he left on this job, to warn him not to let his heart get in the way of this one. "She's deadly Barton. Taken out more of our men in the last six months, than others have taken out in the last four years. Use your head for this one, not your heart. Don't turn this into another one of your little projects. She's vicious, she's deadly, she's evil."

"She's a kid..." That was one little thing Coulson had left out. In what surveillance they'd managed to get of The Black Widow, she'd looked so much more experienced. So much deadlier. So much, well, older. Clint had seen videos of her snapping the necks of men between her thighs, seducing her targets and had read files about the various jobs she'd taken on. But in person, when he first looked at her through the scope of his bow, she was just a fucking kid. A teenager really. A deadly one who'd already almost killed him multiple times tonight, but still.

He didn't decide not to kill her just because of her age, after all he'd seen what she was capable of he wasn't that stupid. He of all people knew that age had no affect on if you were our evil or not. Rather, when Clint had looked at her about to take the kill shot without her realizing, he'd decided to give her four hours. Four hours of watching her, looking for any signs that someone so lost might be redeemable.

He hadn't found much. And he'd tried so hard to look.

So what had he found?

A girl who could take on a dozen different personas based on her needs in the span of a few hours, someone who knew how to turn on the charm to get what she needed. Someone who used money stolen from her fallen marks of earlier to go shopping, someone who Clint knew in his gut was as lost as he had been not so very long ago. Someone who reminded the archer so much of himself at that age, that he couldn't stop looking for something that might make the spy redeemable in the eyes of Shield.

Unfortunately, what Barton also saw on his little surveillance trip was someone who was very good at luring their hunter into a trap, when she realized she was being followed. One minute he'd been following her at a safe distance as she went shopping for various odds and ends in small shops, and then she was gone, and then somehow he was being pulled into a side alley.

Their fight had been short, gruesome, one of the most epic experiences Clint had ever had in hand to hand combat. She had tricks he'd never seen before, but luckily, he had some moves up his sleeve as well.

Shortly after the fight started, he'd quickly re-evaluated his initial urge to take her in under his wing to try and help her. He was too busy staying alive to have any grand visions of becoming her savior and pulling her from the dark side... He decided if he got the chance to incapacitate her and take her in, then he would. If not, then Barton would carry out the job he'd been sent here to do.

Looking back he'd never really be sure how he came out of that fight alive, much less with an unconscious Black Widow. But it happened, which led them to where they were now. Sitting in awkward silence in a foreign hotel room, Clint ignoring Coulson's attempt to contact him (they wouldn't send in backup to see if he needed help, or to confirm his assumed death for at least a few more hours) and Black Widow sulking in the corner, nursing her wounds with the supplies Clint had provided for her. Clint hadn't bothered to tie her up, knowing that wouldn't do much to stop her. His insurance against her attacking again, was ensuring that his bow was within arms reach. And making sure she didn't have any weapons on her; Well, didn't have any that he'd been able to find anyway.

She'd woken up, surprised to still be alive, more surprised that she wasn't locked in a cell yet. She hadn't asked questions, he hadn't offered an explanation. He'd thrown her a med kit to fix her wounds, they'd warily kept their distance from one another, like two cats ready to pounce at a moments notice.

Finally, she broke the silence, shortly after she had finished plastering a bandage over where he'd knicked her arm with a knife.

"Why didn't you kill me?" He glanced up at her, these were the first words she'd actually spoken to him. He paused to gather his thoughts, and she continued. "If you think you can drag me into Shield as some kind of prize, if you think you can crack me open so I can spill my secrets to your boss, you've got another thing coming." These words sounded fierce, but covered in her own dried blood, shivering in the stupidly strong hotel room air conditioning that Clint hadn't figured out how to control yet, all the archer could think of again was how very young she looked. Instead of answering the questions of his mark, Barton stood up and moved towards the mini-fridge.

"Can I get you anything?" He asked, cracking open the fridge to survey it's contents. Clint could practically hear her roll her eyes as she said, "my guns? My freedom? A drink?" Ignoring the first two requests, the archer scoffed, and moved some bottles in the fridge aside looking for something he'd brought from America. "Are you even old enough to be drinking? You're what, seventeen?" The other assassin lowered her eyes and continued to fiddle with the bandage she was applying to the knife wound, and now he was sure she was about to murder him. But instead of leaping into another fight she spoke again. "I'm old enough to do a lot of things. Age is more than just a number, Hawkeye. I can promise you I'm much older than my years."

Clint considered this, glanced at the bottle of vodka he'd picked up a few weeks ago, and pushed this aside to grab what he'd been looking for in the first place. "Old enough to kill a bunch of people? Or old enough to be a pawn in the hands of people who don't give a shit about you?" Her eyes narrowed at this, her hands tightened around the tube of antiseptic cream she was now holding. "Try, old enough to know when a hostile force is trying to lure me into a false sense of security, so they can take advantage of me for their own benefit. What does Shield want with me?"

Clint snorted at this, plunked the marshmallow spread he'd brought from home on the rickety hotel desk, and rummaged in his backpack for the bread he'd brought last night. "You allergic to peanuts?" She didn't reply, just continued to glare at him. Barton shrugged, reached for the jar of Jiff he'd brought from home. "Ok, if you have an allergic reaction to peanuts because of me that's on you. Don't say I didn't ask you."

She didn't even crack half a smile, just continued to glare at him. He opened the jar, spoke just to fill the silence. "Shield, doesn't want anything from you, except maybe your head on a spike. My orders were to bring you in dead or alive, minus the alive part." Natasha's face was already stony, but at this news her face seemed to close off even more. "So why am I here then? Are you trying to prove something to your boss to make an impression, or are you just an idiot who wants to get themselves killed?"

Clint chose to ignore the last part of this comment, as he busied himself making his favorite sandwich. "You're here because I'm not anyone's puppet, I make my own choices. I made the call NOT to kill you, because I think you have a lot of life left to live, Widow. I was in your shoes not that long ago. Misguided, I made some mistakes, let things get dark enough that I didn't see a way I could ever get out. But even though it might not be the way that you thought it was... There's always a way out."

At these words Clint grabbed a clean knife out of another bag, and cut the fluffernutter sandwich he'd just made in half. He crammed most of his half into his mouth, and handed the other half to her. "Here. Eat. I know getting stabbed by a knife always makes me hungry." Black Widow narrowed her eyes at the man who had stabbed her not even an hour ago, and snatched the sandwich out of his hand. She looked at it with disdain. "What is this? Why is it so- sticky?" Barton scoffed, took another bite of his half. "It's a fluffernutter, don't you have these in Russia or wherever the hell you're from? Come on it's peanut butter and marshmallow fluff on bread. It's freaking amazing."

The Russian spy placed the sandwich down on the bed next to her, disgustedly wiped her fingers on the blanket. "So what if I do go with you? The people that control you will thank you for bringing me in, and then dispose of me the second your back is turned. Why should I willingly let myself walk into that? I'm an assassin, not an idiot."

Clint crammed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, mainly to give himself another moment to think. Believe it or not I've got some pretty important people on my side at Shield. What if we strike a deal? Give it... Let's say a couple months at Sheild. I'll make sure no one kills you, or interrogates you, or makes you do anything against your will. You can see if you like my side of things, if you don't you can go back to lurking in the shadows, killing people you get paid to kill, and being on the run from a half dozen high profile organizations."

The young assassin took this offer into consideration. "You're making some pretty big promises there, Hawkeye... Are those things you can actually deliver on?" Clint shrugged, "Honestly? Not sure. But I can promise that if things do start to go south, I'll do whatever I can to try and help you." He could almost see the wheels turning in her head, as she calculated her options. "Is this even a choice? What if I say no? I doubt you'll just turn a blind eye and let me walk away. You're not that stupid." Clint shrugged. "Maybe we have another fight and this time, you get to walk away. But I promise if you do get away, they won't stop sending people after you. And not everyone is as nice, or makes as great of sandwiches as I do."

The red headed quirked an eyebrow at this, glanced again at the oozing sandwich half besides her. "Wow, if you're heir best sandwich maker, can't say I have much faith in the rest of your team..." She was thinking again. Weighing her options, contemplating the choices. She suddenly not only looked young, but also exhausted. That bone deep exhaustion that not only weighs down your body, but also your soul. Clint remembered when he was that tired all the time, it wasn't the kind of fatigue that could be helped with sleep. "Come on kid, just let me help you..." He couldn't help but think to himself.

As he thought this, her eyes flitted up towards him, as if the assassin knew what he was thinking. "I'm not spilling my secrets to the first guy in a suit that you lock me in an office with." She warned, crossing her arms defensively. Clint shrugged. "Ok, that's fair. They're still going to ask you questions though." "That doesn't mean I'm going to answer them." She shot back at him. Barton shrugged. "That's fine, interrogations are above my pay grade anyway. Not my monkeys, not my circus."

"And they're not going to lock me in a cell? Or torture me to try and make me spill my secrets? Because that won't end well for anyone." Clint shrugged. "They didn't do that to me." The red head narrowed her eyes at this. "You haven't done what I've done."

There was silence for a beat, Clint screwed the lid back on the peanut butter. "Don't make assumptions about shit you don't know about kid. I lived enough years on Shields bad side to do some crap I regret now." The Black Widow tilted her head at this, he could see her reevaluating what she thought she knew about him.

"One month. If I hate it, give me a week to get a head start before your boss sends his goons after me." Clint chuckled. "Two months, I'll give you a couple hours to get a head start." Her eyes narrowed. "A month and a half, you'll give me a day to get out if I wanna leave." The archer shrugged as she said this. "Well, that's not ideal, but it's probably as good as it's gonna get."

He thrust out a hand still vaguely stickey with marshmallow. "Shake on it?" There was that look again, the one that made Clint feel like this young woman could see into his soul, like she knew every one of his secrets. But then she held out her hand, the hand that still had his dried blood encrusted in the fingernails. Barton reached out to shake it and she pulled back just a bit; "I don't make deals often, Hawkeye. But when I do, I stick to them. I'd hope you feel the same way."

He reached out, touched her for the first time out of combat as he wrapped her hand in his. "When I make a promise, I stick to it. Now are you going to eat that Widow, or do I get the rest of my sandwich back?"

She pulled her hand back as she rolled her eyes. "Go make another one, you gave this to me. It's sticky, but it's mine."

_I'm so, so rusty at this... But I kind of feel like I am getting back into the groove of writing these? Maybe? If you did not totally hate this, please let me know. End Game gave me too many stories I wanna write, if you are still interested in reading what I have to say leave a comment ;D_


End file.
